Friday 22 May 2009

 

Postcard from the Edinburgh Book Festival 2007

Postcard from the Edinburgh Book Festival
21st August 2007

Charlotte Square Gardens. A green square turned to mush. Wooden walk ways describe parameters, offering temporary floors to temporary bookshops, reading rooms and cafes. Every step is like being ocean bound, set off for foreign territory - clunk, sway, whoosh, sway, clunk- all aboard who are going aboard. The sky remains black, warns of stormy weather ahead.

Been travelling for days without food, time to stop at port, fill up on provisions. The cafe, overpriced of course - rip off sandwiches, the leftovers, toxic combinations, no sentient being would eat. The place is busy, the make-shift book shelves, cafe tables, societal claustrophobia laps, deep waves. So I risk outside. I eat, quickly, feeling myself sink into browning grass with each tasteless mouthful. Olives, tomatoes, cheese, ham, whatever else it is that’s in there - it all goes the same way.

I wander. Portacabin toilets, with that glorious festival smell. Hold your nose. Do your business. And move on. Move on. Godspeed to the courageous.

Guest of honour, on a lonely corner - loitering. Shoulder length hair, dark; fitted jacket, black; dress, cream coloured, knee length; legs, bare, nice; shoes, brown heels. At a guess a little older than me, but with a sharp attractiveness. An organiser arrives, offers a life line dear author. She smiles wanly, unconvinced. Wraps her hair back, left hand, fold behind right ear, more smiling and remember the polite chatter.

The site has an abandoned air, a curious silence informs this festival hub. People involved - children line up to get books signed, members of staff, book sellers. I look at the time. Again. The old American woman asks if I am sitting at the front of the queue or the end. I shrug, I don't know, I just sat down, and I suspect I'm not even going to the same event. I suggest she finds a chair and see what happens. But a glance suggests there aren't many chairs, so I give her mine, and wander closer to the venue. Joining the other loiterers, copies of MR.Y stick out, here and there. Listening to the laughter as a male author regales his audience in a nearby venue. Flick at midgies, who eat me, a microgram at a time, not much longer and they'll have me stripped to the bone - writers retreat!

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